Thursday, December 6, 2007

My mother, a modern woman, called me a little yellow girl while she combed my hair. an act that she hasn't performed in many years. She dug her fingers through the nappy space above my scalp with grease on her hands. i closed my eyes and marveled at the wonderful feeling of her touch. I hoped that she wouldn't use the pick or the hard toothed comb. I laughed when she said "Let me hit this kitchen with some heat."

I always laugh and she always asks me: "what's so funny?" I never have a decent explanation as to why that statement is so funny.

After all the sculpting is finished and all the primping is through, she turns me around and looks down at my face. "You little yellow girl," she says for no particular reason. I tell her i'm not yellow. I'm just like her. In fact, we're nearly identical.

She scoffs and rebukes me. No, she says. you're not. You with your good hair.

When my smile falters, i thank her and try to hug away the awful debt i've stacked for being different from her. Although, i was under the impression i wasn't all that different to begin with.

The numbers i've seen don't compare to the identities i've tried to live.24 is the cyclical reminder that i'm losing what mind i've left.15 is the tight rope i danced only to fall off the left side. 15 hurt my feet.26 is the fake life i carried willingly when i was sixteen.940 is the interesting turn i took when i found the world was only out for my blood.No biggie.And then today, i discovered, unbeknownst to me, that i was number #34 all along.I had to look it up, no one told me. As i counted, i smiled and believed things werelooking up.I am a 34.Have you seen me?

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Like Bob asked me, I asked her:“How does it feel?” She ignored me and pressed her lips to the sun’s forehead, where the climate is more temperate than I had previously imagined. My dog could hear the approaching trot of green. And while I couldn’t see it, I could definitely smell it. The olfactory division of my face was on high alert. So were my toes.

I asked her again, like Bob asked me:“How does it feel?”Her chortle was like ten infants rolling around in the hay. Nutty and creamy. She gave the sun a bear hug. I’m certain it was uncomfortable by the gesture. Persons of astute wisdom can roll blunts quicker than they can tie their cravats. I’ve stuffed my lasagna full of wisdom. Let’s eat.

I added like Bob would have:“To be on your own. . .”When she did a headstand on the sun’s belly I was beside myself. What grace? I usually like my cars organic, but Prius will do. My cup-holders are on the roof, my café au lait is securely tucked away in the glove box with my semi-automatic rifle. I feel jealous and completely rational.

I reiterated like Bob did:“With no direction home. . .”Imagine my demise when I saw her intimately touch the sun’s skin. She’s brash, a rebel, and dangerous. I can’t have her on the force. Hand over the gun and badge. Aww chief! Put the safety on your finger. We don’t want any accidents. Not like last week. She passed the baton to me via the helios star, made millions of years ago to make me colored.

I pleaded like Bob did:“A complete unknown. . .”Kiss off. I can’t see the trees for the forest. And they said my detail was blurry. My eyes are only blurry, so suck it. I’m building rapport with the children on my block and I now know why they vandalize Chip Wade’s bushes. I won’t tell you though. Build your own rapport.

I summed it up in a manner that would please Bob:“Like a rolling stone.”I’ve taken the liberty of adding peas to the brisket. It gives the meat a country feeling you lack. She rolled her eyes and fell asleep on the center of my universe. I’ve the distinct feeling that she’s not listening. I was going to have a harmonica interlude, but my lips don’t want to work like they used to. Silly slackers.

I came in the dead of winterunder a mound of blanketsjust when you were deep enoughmy skin crawled under the woolit contracted my lungs and tookthe breath from my throatyou had no problem breathing, Icould smell rum blowing againstmy cheeks . . .and you joined me.

You used to do that thing with your tongue but stopped when I turned away bashfully. You knew I was never one for extravagance or for public displays of anything. And then you stopped doing that thing you do with your eyes. You know, I would blush and you’d smile? You stopped that an I regretted saying anything at all.

I could have told you, a long time ago, I knew all there was to know about desire. Mine own hands have made maps mimicking most men's misogynistic desires. I’ve beat them to the punch and I’ll not be ashamed to remind them and you. Does it seem doggedly disconcerting and damning to know you’ll require my permission upon entering? You must think me as wicked as my old mother Eve. But I tempt you not! I only warn you: I know all there is about desire.

In the quiet, she only has the busdriver and ‘ol Baba O’Reilly tokeep her company. Both, she’sterribly dependent on. In thereflection of the windows shesees herself [out of the cornerof her eye] scrawling out life ina tatter edged notebook. To noone in particular, maybe Baba,she smiles in the florescent light.It’s her stop.

I’m about as two sheets as I can get.The pen in my hand shakes as I write this for you.Never again do I want to be this high.Never again do I want to feel this low.This is the beginning of a terrible and dependent relationship.I think I’m going to throw up.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

The name of your love is "me."The curve of your love's hip, it belongs to "me."The way your love's back arches beneath you is characteristic of something "I" would do.The coy smile your love's lips make; those are really "my" lips.The way your love's presences stops your world, makes you gasp for breath, and plead with God to spare your life for another day in order to be in her ethereal light. . .Those were all brought on by none other than "myself."Does this suprise you?Does this excite you?"I" knew it would.

The people that wait with you are your long lost siblingsyou wait under the same starry nighton the one most dependable force godcan offer you: the bus.Your brothers shuffle their feetand your sisters sighAnd you all listen to the crow’s cawAs the bus downtown runs lateYou guys haven’t got much time.

I’ve walked the street that shines an iridescent light.On shoes that have holes, in a dress that is faded.My companion is the niggling thought in the back of mymind. It tells me the moon is low enough to change myTide. that’s comfort on a grey pavement

The girl that sits on the boy’s lap at the bus stop knows not what she does to him as she bumps and jerks and plays she isn’t aware of his desire or the power that grows in his fist or between his legs she grins and shouts at her friends that pass by showing them the new toy she’s acquired because that’s what he is he’s fun he’s playful and he’s harmless he sits beneath her docile and biding his time until the day comes when she’ll “owe” him a “favor” and like the Reaper he’ll come to collect citing his previous patience his funniness his playfulness his harmlessness the girl that sits on the boy’s lap knows not what must be paid in full poor girl with every bump jerk play she is being taken for awildride.

It’s cold and late and you’re drunkYou’ve insisted on taking me homeAlthough I’ve helped you down a darksidewalk. You smell like booze, cigarettes,and lost dreams.“Loser. It smells like a Man.”Your eyes are half lidded your handhas copped its complimentary feel.It’s time to go home

The snot nosed child that’s crying behind me doesn’t know pain quite like his mother does. With his six or seven siblings seated around him, he’s got no inkling as to what life’s got in store for him. Or maybe he does.

Is he aware that his mother’s food stamps are running low?That the rent has yet to be paid?School clothes will have to be borrowed?Mother will have to haggle his father for support?

Maybe the snot nosed child that’s crying behind me knows all too well what the fates have thrust upon him and his six or seven sibling. It seems the whole lot should have sniffles, including Mama. But he takes it upon himself to cry for them all.What a responsible young martyr.

We’ve hit this bridge at ninety miles per hour.Randomness is the best medicine for shock.My air bag is deflating too fast.I’m not driving with you again. WE’RE notGoing to try this anymore. I’m out of gas,You’re low on anti-freeze.We’ve hit this bridge at ninety miles per hour.Maybe my randomness will save us both.

Monday, November 12, 2007

She's in no need of saving.If you were capable of it, it's far too late now.It angers her that you've ridden into town in tarnished armor, thrustinga wooden sword and atop of a flea bitten nag.Your face guard is slipping.It's a waste of her time, you know.If only you could have suited up years ago.She suspects you're here out of guilt and not because of your honor-boundduty.I think she might be right.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

I am not man or woman, i am the salt of the earth.I am common.From the tattered strings of my sneakers to the rough edges of my jeans.I am common.The sun shines on my hands the same as the person beside me.I am common.The wind whips my hair in it's restless way the same as it does my neighbor.I am common.My worries are like ladybugs in a field, small and only brilliant under close scrutiny.I am common.My smile is the light of my life not anyone else's.I am common.I am the cog that turns, the oil, the labor, and stress that keep a machine rolling.I am common.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

I woman drops her reciept and the wind pulls it away from her like a taunting four year old. She trots and then canters whilst keeping composure. After scolding the offending force, she stomps the piece of paper. As if nipping things in the bud. She looks around at the rest of the world for validation. She handled the wind.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

An old woman's bones creak as she climbs aboard a city bus.She sits in the front, right behind the driver with purse on lap.Her sheer headscarf is secured with shiny bobby pinsOn her face, giant sunglasses reflecting the world that passes.We pass the old folk's home and her heart flutters.She's not there, but she knows people, perhaps friends whoPass the time away there. Or waste away there.Like passing a cemetary, she holds her breath and says a hail maryFor those who have "passed."Her wrinkled hands hold her purse tighter, her back straightensThe fear that falls over her face disappears only a few blocks laterNear main street she smiles and converses with others.Near north street she forgets all about that niggling worry in theBack of her mindIt comes back only subtly, when she steps off the bus, her bonesCreak their protest and she knows she's damned close to joiningThose who have "passed."

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

I'm floating on a good drunkjust above the equator, i'm waitingfor the right tree to bend it's palmthen i'll slide down the banana and to therootI heard the mud there is just warm enoughto squish my toes and my finger tips inI'm wallowing in feel goodness all overfrom my canopy to my floor

named Hector, who only wanted to make love to mein the morning.At night he was tired and I was awake.In the morning he was awake and I was tired.When I asked him why he only wanted me in the early dawn,he laughed.As if it were obvious.He told me I was most beautiful in the morning.I was just born.My hair in a disarray didn't bother him nor the pillow creases in my face.Sleeping beauty was roused with a simple kiss, but it took several scattered along my neck,a nonabrasive grope to my breast,and a raspberry blown on my belly.When i finally open eyes, he told me,it's as if i were reborn that morning.It's as if he were the first to meet meand i him.It's as if he gave life to me from his rib.I think of it as beautiful inconvenience.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

And going to find a burger.I've got my bag in hand, with several books in itI'm walking the streets, i'm let letting the wind slap me around.I'm going to eat that burger slowly and read those booksI might find a drink of coffee too.If i feel so inclined, i might take my time coming back to the world that claims to need me.I might be late, i might show up on time.I might ditch the whole thing and get drunk.I'm throwing it all away and for nothing else but to save my life.It's not much, but it's all i got.I haven't planned it past the burger, but i'm ready. . .

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Is not beyond you if you have a thirst for vengeanceThat cannot be settled with "just holding it in."God bless those edges that are serratedAnd paint that it is as faulty as your temper"Bitch!" "Bastard!" "Cunt!" "Dick!" are among theMany things to scrawl across the hood of a CamryTires are added flair and suggest arroganceStick with cowardice and with seven payments of19.95 plus shipping and handling, you too. . .Can learn the Art of keying cars.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

I knew the measure of my bitchiness when i was ninei confronted a blond girl in the hallway of school."I used to have a coat just like that," I told her.I knew exactly what I was doing. She lookeduncomfortable."It had the same fur trim around the hood, the samemagenta buttons, the same silver zipper. Where didyou get it?"She mumbled something unintelligible and i knew i was abitch"It's a nice coat, i remember, cause i had one just like it."I told my mother about it and saw the disappointment in her eyes."I donated that coat, kiddo. You grew out of it, remember?"It was mine and now it's her's and i let her know it.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Simon and Garfunkel claimed to search for America on the New Jersey Turnpike at a time when i was not a thought. When will i come into existence as the kid with chops?Dylan said there would be a change and so far i've seen a stationary progression. When will i get past the disappointments that sting like joking belly flops?McCartney and his compadres pretended to be a band on the run. When this desert settle down in my stomach?Kiedis and his peppers said that they were standing in line waiting on a show. Its keeps playing in the back of my mind. When can't i stop for a second take?

They write these words with such easeI can't admit that i'm envious of their geniusI so badly to take their melody,i want to take Vedder's even flow and place it on my tonguei'll settle for Jagger's brown sugar

and smelled you until i sobbed.it isn't supposed to smell like you anymore.Where is the statute of limitations?in the same place where this ignored love lives.all i want to do is hold you emotionally hostagewith all my bullshit.My requests are forty grand in unmarked billsa jet to the keysand your promise that you'll come down with Stockholm's Syndrome

Monday, October 8, 2007

I'm not all that into potato chips like i thought i was.I actually enjoys most things tortilla.This discovery makes me wish i didn't waste my time.I'll bet you wish the same, don't you?I hope this has no ill effects on our un-relationship.The fact that potato chips no long "do it" for meshouldn't bring a cloud of uneasiness over our good time

Is a case of voyeurism gone terribly awryI've watched him take her in with glances;claiming her in the name of [name here]the tiny mole on her neck not with a flagbut with his lips. . .his eyes have a pathetic longing not unlikea dog's. that tongue is similar as wellhe's this close [forefinger and thumb quite close]to doing something rash:kidnaprape with words"you remind me of my mother. i want to kissyou."I'm violated just by watching him.pressing gifts of dead flowerstrips to the parkthese are all the things riddling his mindwhen he looks at her.I want to give him one good slap and pullhimoutofher.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

those who had a hand in my conception, i forgive you.you had no idea what you were about but you forgedahead with the pretenses of being experience.although some of you couldn't hack the journey, it provedtoo difficult, the remainder had enough gumption to bullshit to the best of their ability. i see that same ability inmyself and i am thankful for that small fortification.i look back and see how far you've come and how fari must go to become involved in someone else's conception.i'm prepared to do what must be done to shape another'spsyche. i don't mind that i've as much experience as thosebefore me when they started. the skill to bull shit is readyat my disposal.so truly, those who had a hand in my conception. . .i forgive you

Monday, October 1, 2007

can you pass me a cigarette?I can't, I'm out.you're out? well what are we supposed to do?talk?I hate it when you answer my questions with questions.That sounds fuckin' cliche. I hate it when people use that phrase.Well what else am i supposed to call it? fucking annoying?Look us, we're talking.I guess we are.

You wanna talk about it?About what?Why you don't have a cigarette.I usually have them, you know that. tonight, i'm out.You're usually good about having them.What do you want me to say about it?I don't know. What do you want to say about it?Are you doing the same fucking thing you accused me of doing? That whole question thing?Sorry.It's all right.

He came from behind me that evening, wrapping his arms around my waist. His touch surprised me. Our faces were close, I could feel his breath against my ear; his chest against my back.

"Hi," I said with a shaky laugh.

"Is that what you would say to your attacker?"

I wanted to tell him that his arms didn't feel like an attackers. I glanced in the mirrors of the dojo studio. The rest of the students were stretching and warming up. I knew we were attracting their glances.

"I don't see you making any moves."

I passed through all the steps that would disable my attacker without really thinking about them. I mocked stepping on his foot, shifting my hips to hit his groin with my fist and then twisting around to hit the side of his head with my elbow.

"Not bad."

"Thanks," I said and immediately blushed as he removed his arms. I ran my fingers through my bangs and tucked them in my ponytail. "I tried to practice my stuff but no one in my family wants to attack me." I laughed. "I think they're afraid."

He smiled and put his hands on his hips. "Not even your boyfriend? Is he afraid too?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," I told him. I said it as cooly as I could, but it came out in a shaky voice.

He nodded in obvious approval. I saw it, could anyone else? I didn't bother to let my gaze drift to the mirrors that surrounded the dojo. "Let me know when I can help," he commented. "It's been awhile since i've gone through the green belt attacks. . . but I'm sure it's all there."

I saw how he set himself up for a compliment. For some reason, I helped him along and finished it for him. I smiled. "Well of course it's been awhile, you're a black belt."

I don't think i noticed his car, or him, the other day the bus passed the parking lot. After i saw him standing beside the car smoking, i wondered how many times i could have seen him before. It was the car i noticed first. i don't know a thing about cars, but i knew this one rather intimately. It was classy, foreign, black and shiny. It shined like the driver's life depended on it. It also seemed reasonable that Satan could have been that driver. With a car that sharp, he could have made house calls.

But the driver was not Satan, he was a white man in his forties, balding at the back of his crown, and wore a office man's uniform. The plume of smoke that came from his cigarrette was the second thing i noticed. I remembered its smell instantly. As if we were together again, hot and sweaty, him correcting my technique, me mumbling my apologies.

i saw his face for the briefest of moments and looked away in embarrassment. What did i have to be embarrassed about? When i looked back, he got in his shiny car. The bus got further away. i turned in my seat to look behind me. His car was gone. As always, i was left frustrated.

Friday, September 28, 2007

He’s really creepy but I want to take him homeEvery time we meet, he greets me with a little danceThe kind of dance that reminds us that he’s not all that oldI wait for him to pull coins out of my ear but he just slaps my fannyJesus . . . he’s really creepySometimes he tells me how music was and how it turned out to beBack in the day jazz was bossAnd it didn’t cost you nothin’ to say hello to someone on the streetWhen he’s done, he’ll shuffle awayWhen he shuffles away, I miss himWhen I miss him, I await his next creepy returnThe next little dance and the next slap on the my assDamn jazzy old man

I snatched up a couple dozen forks from the cafeteria today. I was once again the girl from second grade saving sandwich bags. I’ve always had a thing with saving the pair of bottom of the deck. It’s doubled the weight of bag over the years. This need to horde and I make a demented duo. It makes me twice the afraid child I used to be.

I apologize for not meeting your gaze when we crossed paths on the road to Shambala. I was busy looking for a quarter. You see, I only had 25 cents to buy a 50 cent ice cream sandwich. I thought my luck would satisfy me with a quarter in the road. I’m sorry I missed you, but ice cream beckoned me and I only had 25 cents.

Monday, September 24, 2007

So i went to the student health area on my campus and told them about an ankle i sprained in April. That's about six months ago. It's still giving me problems, i didn't go to the doctor because i don't want to pay people to tell me i should just "walk it off." I tell the nurse how long it had been since my injury. She gives me this look that suggests that i'm stupid. And i do feel ashamed to have to tell her the truth. I want to say that i did this stupid thing a week ago.

"what were you doing?" she asks.

"i was rollerblading."

she smiles and shakes her head. She knows i know what she's going to say about that. So she lets it slide. She asks me what my symptoms. I tell her:

"whenever i've had a long day of walking, it hurts. By the end of the day, it's usually swollen."

She asks me why i'm just now coming to the doctor. I don't have a decent answer. Sometimes i can put stuff off for so long, in the hopes that they just get better on their own. I tell her something to that effect. she shakes her head again.

Eventually, that day, i got x-rays and that was kinda fun.

When i get the call back to in and review those x-rays, i'm almost sure that it's good news. "With a few more months, of just walking, your ankles is going to heal itself quite nicely."

That's not what i got, i find out that i actually fractured it. This was told to me by a bemused doctor who examines my x-rays with a furrow in her brow. "You're going to want to go to an orthopedic surgeon." What!

And this is six months ago! i've been walking around on a fracture for half a year and i'm still calling it a sprain. i think i'm still going to call it a sprain. i just don't believe my luck. I peeved about the possibility of surgery, but somewhat relieved that this problem has a name. It's called a "Fracture of the Distal Fibula."

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Sitting in the vestibule of Wal-Mart, i heard a man drop a jar of mayonnaise. "Shit!" he exploded. Savage was his oath. I looked away but looked back as he left. Cracked was his jar. People avoided stepping on the white dressing as they passed, without really looking. Nimble were their steps. It's hit or miss, i usually say. This time, the mayo hit the ground. Ironic was my reaction.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Have you ever heard Mozart?I don’t like MozartHave you ever heard Mozart?No.He’s a smart man, that Mozart.We don’t listen to people like MozartSay who?Say the kidsKids don’t know Mozart?Maybe, maybe not, but they don’t listen

Who do you like?Pussycat Dolls.Good Lord, who’s that? They make good music?It’s not MozartI guess not

All that separates us and them, is a package of tater-babies and 29¢ burritosJogging on nicely paved sidewalks and dog walkingEl Caminos and 1987 NissansWalgreens with full parking lots across the street from ApplebeesHanging out on stoops and chewing the fat at the chicken jointSubdivisions with Mexican groomed lawns and garages full of Sears tools“First of the Month” folks and “Comin’ into town from the farm” folksA slightly favored, a much cleaner Wal-MartRunny nosed Mullato bastards and coughing old ladiesCoach sunglasses and megaton “lady” Hummers to carry children and groceriesSpeakers far too big and far too loud for gentry comfortGirl scouts who still hump the pavement to make a saleBeauty supply stores owned and run by quiet KoreansBagboys take sacks to the car and people pass gratuityDrive thru liquor and cigarette shopsThe neighborhood watch composed of a “neighborhood elected council”Televisions that mysteriously fall off the backs of trucksCops immediately on the scene for a quarrel over hedge trimmingOh god--- the difference between them and us is too great to mendOne of us will beg to ignore the otherThe other will beg to be seen But because of the great machine. . .We’ll continue being “us” and “them”One side on the illustrious MLK Blvd.The other with it’s crowded Cracker Barrel

Oh, the birds did flyThe did so with flairUp, they flitted across the skyOh, the birds did flyAbove the autumn trees that were dryThey darted between clouds with dareOh the birds did flyThey did so with flair

Water nymphs dive and playIn water so blue and clearThey glide deeper than the sun shines its rayWater nymphs dive and playTricks and shenanigans during the dayAnd even at night, when fisherman leaves the pierWater nymphs dive and playIn water so blue and clear

She didn’t know she’d break her shoewhile dancing the Cuban Boogalu.Nor did he know how many martinis it tookto give him that loose intoxicated look.

I held her waist with innocent sweaty handsI watched, on the verge of staring, the heart within my chest did dance.As the music played, the rocking of her body undulated slowerMy sweaty hands moved lower.

You don’t know a person until you’ve seen them danceYou’ve seen them at their freest, they’ve given you that chanceYou’ve seen the movement that is their breath, their life,The pounding that is their heart, their work and their strife.

The Samba is on, their faces are flushedAfter a few stumbles, he doesn’t feel quite as rushed.It will take a powerful wave to dousethis powerful fire they’ve stoked and aroused.

He smiled when I slipped my broken heels off my feetHe loosened his collar and popped another olive between his teeth.He’s nervous as hell, he’s had far too much to drinkBut I’m going to lead around by his necktie, barefooted, before he knows to blink.

You don’t know a person until you’ve seen their truest graceUntil you’ve seen that sheen of sweat on their face.You know not your lover until you seen his smile during his final throesHis hips, his hands, his rhythm: it’s these things only you should know.